Thank you to Rochelle for providing Friday Fictioneers!
Song Without End
He’s gone again.
Not gone, gone, because he’d never leave his prized Fender.
He might be drinking at the pub or smoking the funny weed, looking for lyrics in the stars. He might be playing the ivories at Dixon’s for some sweet young thing, he’d tell me about later. “It doesn’t mean anything.” And sadly enough I’d know it’s true.
The music, when it finally curls through the house like a seductive spell, will be transcendent, the lyrics poignantly in love.
Days after, frenetic passion, until sated, then the moment motions for him to find a different chord.